


late-night indecision

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [22]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Clint Barton Feels, Feelings, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Bucky Barnes, Short & Sweet, Wingfic, brief allusions to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23857597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Clint's got secrets. Bucky's not sure how to take it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1443160
Comments: 55
Kudos: 234
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	late-night indecision

Steve’s wings are gold. (Of course they are, he’s the golden boy in everyone’s eyes.) Bucky remembers the way they used to look, stunted pinfeathers and twisted, mangled bones. Now they’re magnificent, gigantic things that trail feathers across the ground when he doesn’t have them spread out. They’re the ideal wings, the things people dream of. Steve being Steve, he forgets to use them most of the time.

Tony’s wings are… animated, to say the least. It doesn’t make them any less fascinating to look at - even without the armoured coating they’re sleek, the mottled brown feathers well-groomed, although that particular adjective is because of Pepper Potts and not any effort on Tony’s part. They let off more emotion than Tony’s face does, puffing gently and fluttering when he speaks, giving him away. He’s prone to smacking people in the face with them if they get too close.

Sam’s wings are impressive. That’s the only word for them. His own feelings on Wilson aside, Bucky knows they’re stunning. Something in Sam’s DNA gave him a little more bird than the rest of them and it shows in the easy maneuvering of his bulky wine-red feathers, the fluid shift of his wings when he moves. He’s confident about them. He should be, really.

Natasha’s wings are also red, although they’re blood-red, stained with the things she’s done in the past. The tips are a soft gold and she wears them like they don’t quite fit right. They’re bigger than Tony’s but still delicate, dangerous things. The media likes to ask her about them. Natasha likes to make Tony stand close to the press so he accidentally smacks them.

Bucky’s wings are razor-sharp metal and a special kind of cold that seeps into his skin, laces through his bones and nests there. They’re an abomination, a shoddy replacement for something beautiful and natural that’s been twisted into a weapon. He doesn’t remember what they looked like, before.

(Steve says they were a dappled gold, browns and yellows mixing in the warmth of the sun. Bucky’s not sure it matters.)

Clint’s wings are…

He doesn’t know. He’s not sure _that_ matters either, because Clint’s sure as hell not sharing. There has to be _something_ there, because Clint left his clothes on the bed once and there’d been a harness of sorts, black straps meant to hold something down to the point of invisibility. The trenchcoat’s a newer part of Clint’s costume, he’s pretty sure, but somehow all the pictures of the time before that have disappeared.

It’s kind of sad, really.

How many people can say they’ve had sex with a guy for three months and never seen his wings a single time?

“Tell me what you want,” Clint mutters against his chest.

Bucky’s stretched out on the bed, on his back - vulnerable, vulnerable is _bad_ , but it’s Clint and this is the safest place Bucky could be - as Clint’s mouth trails over every inch of skin he can reach. Bucky’s shirt is somewhere outside of the bubble of _this_ so he doesn’t care what’s happened to it, and his pants are heading that way too judging by the way Clint’s fingertips keep dipping into his waistband.

His wings are sprawled out underneath him, steel digging into the mattress. Clint had tucked a pillow between them and the exposed skin of Bucky’s back when he’d pushed Bucky onto the bed earlier. Bucky’s suffered much worse discomforts than steel feathers poking his spine but it’s one of those little things, things that Clint notices and fixes without saying anything or drawing attention to it.

Clint’s teeth scrape his nipple and Bucky arches up into it, nearly forgets he’s been spoken to. It’s _hard_ concentrating when Clint’s all over him. Even through the layers of kevlar and leather and coat he’s warm and solid against Bucky, settles something clawing for touch inside him.

“More,” Bucky manages. “You.”

He means it in the most simple way - even if Clint just sat on his windowsill and talked about sports games that Bucky knows nothing about, it’d be fine. It’s _Clint_. Some part of him wants to ask for more, though. Wants to ask to peel the layers off of Clint’s skin and touch the same way he gets touched, like it means something.

All he does is thread his fingers through Clint’s hair. It’s getting a little shaggy, he notices absently as Clint’s tongue swipes over his stomach.

Bucky’s pretty sure he’s in love with Clint Barton, is the problem, and if Clint can’t even take off his clothes during sex, what are the chances it’s reciprocated?

“Did you die in the night? I’m not carrying your corpse, man.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky answers blandly.

Sam throws a pillow at his face. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

Bucky rolls over and pulls the blankets over his face. It’s cold in here, and despite Tony’s best efforts to develop a more durable fabric there are still tiny rips in the sheets. No wonder Clint never stays the night, he’s a fucking health hazard.

Maybe it’s not Clint. Maybe it’s him. He’s seen the movie posters and the models they have these days; the people with their wings intertwined as the ultimate show of romance. That’s never going to be him and Clint. Bucky knows it’s not about him - the nasty voice in his chest always says it’s _his_ fault Clint doesn’t get close, but he knows what anxiety and depressive episode are, and he knows the voice is lying to him.

Still. He wishes Clint would stay the night, sometimes.

“You said you’d come running this morning,” Sam says. He’s demanding because Bucky will jog at his speed, _unlike_ someone else.

Bucky’s still missing his clothes and his body aches all over from rolling on his wings in the night. He doesn’t want to go running, he just wants to wallow in the bad feelings for a little while longer. He’s not going to stay here the whole day but he does want to press on the bruise for a minute, feel the ache. Try and remind himself not to get too close.

“Come on, man, this is-”

The door creaks and Sam breaks off. Good. Maybe Steve will drag him away and Bucky will finally get some goddamned peace.

It’s not Steve, though. “Uh. Am I interrupting something?”

Bucky pulls the sheets back from his face at the sound of the voice. He’s greeted with the sight of Sam in his too-short running shorts, eyeing off Clint. Clint’s got a stack of waffles in one hand, looking awkward and uncomfortable at Sam’s presence. He’s still wearing the trench coat, but the kevlar’s been replaced with a worn-looking Black Widow shirt.

The waffles have strawberries and whipped cream.

Bucky’s puzzled.

“Now I think _I’m_ interrupting something,” Sam says.

“Get outta here, Wilson,” Bucky replies distractedly, and for once in his life Sam actually listens and does what he says. It might be because of the weirdness of the situation - they’re not strictly keeping this a _secret_ , but they’re not exactly public either.

Bucky shifts to the side of the bed and Clint draws in closer like he’s magnetized. He doesn’t fall into bed dramatically and start spooning, but he sets the food down carefully and then kneels on the other side of the bed, slides sideways until he’s propped up by the headboard.

“Hi,” Bucky says.

They do dark alleyways, night times when people are asleep or gone, abandoned buildings. They don’t do mornings. ( _Clint_ doesn’t do mornings.)

“Hey,” Clint returns, lips twitching up in half a smile. “I brought you breakfast?”

He appreciates it, but- “why?”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says. “I get that I’m- that this isn’t how normal people act. ”

“We’re not normal people,” Bucky answers.

“Still,” Clint says, shifts and reaches for Bucky’s hand. “I’m sorry I’m weird about this. I have a lot of shit going on in my brain, Buck, and none of it’s your problem. I just- I want to try being better about it and I really like you- like, as much as Kate likes stealing my bow, so.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, surprised.

He’s _so_ surprised that he doesn’t really notice where Clint’s putting his hand until it brushes the soft inner lining of the coat and then a second later, the barest touch of feathers. That’s even more shocking than the feelings talk and he turns wide eyes up at Clint’s face before he looks back down at his hand, where he can see a blur of snow-white.

He has to- “You’re sure?”

“No,” Clint says, and his jaw’s clenched just a little, a grim sort of look in his eye. “But you can, anyway."

Bucky’s fingers brush a delicate ridge of bone underneath the feathers and leather, something that twitches when his thumb touches it.

Then he takes his hand back.

“No,” he says. “Not if you’re not comfortable.”

And sure he wants to see, wants to touch, wants to think about whatever Clint’s got under that trench coat and harness in the same vaguely poetic way he thinks about the others. But he’s not willing to risk _this_ for it. Clint gives him a funny look like _Bucky’s_ being weird here.

He’s more relaxed though, and when Bucky turns on the TV and slides over to rest his cheek on Clint’s thigh, Clint stays.

Bucky’s happier like this, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Winterhawk Bingo Square: Wingfic


End file.
